Page 294 of Heart So Hollow

I waited for the door to move, whether it was from her or him, so I could take my shot and end his pathetic life. But last night, it was just not meant to be. Instead, he slunk back into the trees and chain-smoked the rest of the night. That’s how I usually know he’s nearby, from the sickly stench of Marlboro Lights somewhere in the vicinity.

There’s only room for one irreverent asshole on this mountain.

But this morning is much more exciting. I never need an alarm when I’m sleeping in the woods. The forest wakes you up along with everything else as soon as the sun begins to rise. I stroll back down the mountain with Bowen, only he doesn’t know it since he’s coming from the south and I’m coming from the west. But we arrive at the tree line at about the same time.

He crosses the yard like he lives here and I watch him post up in front of the sliding glass door outside our bedroom, playing statue for two fucking hours. He watches Brett sleep, much like I do from the feed on my phone, while I keep my sights on him.

At one point, she starts jerking around in the bed like she’s having a nightmare and I hope to God she doesn’t jump up and start trying to smash her way out of the room again. She hasn’t had any nightmares for a while, so it would be extremely ill-timed for her brain to freak out now…

Fortunately, Brett calms down and stays asleep for another 10 minutes or so. As soon as she stirs and I see her start to get out of bed, I prepare for a shit show. But, to my utter shock, I don’t hear any screams, shots, or any other noise, for that matter. There’s just silence.

Bowen doesn’t move, still motionless in front of the dark glass. My finger tenses on the trigger when he reaches for the door handle and tries to open it without success. Brett’s going to ream me out for that one. She hates sliding glass doors—because of me—and I’ve been telling her I’ll turn that one into a big picture window instead. But before I could, things…got busy.

I mutter more than a few curses when I see the faint outline of Brett’s body appear in the glass. She stands just on the other side, mere inches from him, staring in silence.

I know what she’s doing.

I could’ve just put a bullet through his head while he skulked around the mountain for the past two days or when he walked through the yard in broad daylight, but that’s not part of the plan. As much as I fucking hate it, I have to wait.

Because there can’t be any shadow of a doubt what he’s here for.

CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE

Brett

Present

During the 1918 flu pandemic, Gunnison made it through relatively unscathed because they implemented draconian measures to keep their people safe. No one in, no one out. And if you left, you couldn’t come back.

The people of Gunnison are no stranger to being vigilant and suspicious of intruders. I’m convinced that the only reason they accepted me is because of Colson and the fact that his father grew up here. It’s why, when Colson came to Toronto for the final time and brought me here, stepping onto this property felt like I was coming home. And when I went to town with him the next day, people already knew me because they knew him. Maybe it’s because this is where I belong.

And that’s the bottom line; I belong here. Bowen does not.

As soon as Valerie’s white Tahoe—excuse me, my white Tahoe—disappears around the bend, I know I’ll never see her again. Her job here is done. It was odd sitting in the passenger seat, watching someone else drive a vehicle specifically purchased for me. It even had the scratch on the dashboard from when I moved in with Bowen.

I wonder why he kept it. It would’ve been easy enough to sell. It was practically brand-new.

Keeping my head on a swivel, I stalk back up the driveway, gravel crunching under my black Vans.

It’s fortunate that I’m angry instead of afraid. It’s fortunate that I did the work, even when I didn’t want to, and spent all this time getting angry instead of staying scared. Because if I hadn’t, I would break down right there on the front porch, paralyzed with fear when I see the paper on my door, the Buck knife stabbed through it like a challenge—a dare.

You’ve been a bad bad girl Honeybee

I jerk the Buck knife from the door; Bowen’s Buck knife, with its classic dark brown handle and gold hilt and pommel. Then I glare at the heavy oak door, the wood marred with a one-inch cut stabbed into it.

Thanks a lot, fucker.

As soon as I see his note, I realize it’s a pronouncement, a statement of intent, a declaration of war.

Honeybee…

To me, it’s a thousand moments and a thousand memories in my cup that runs over. But to Bowen, it’s a curse, a blasphemous utterance insulting every fiber of his being. As it should. Clenching my fist, I crumple the paper in my fingers and throw open the door, immediately slamming it behind me and flipping the deadbolt. Then I stare at the knob with a sinking realization.

Shit. I didn’t lock the door when I chased his scout off my property.

I left my own house completely open, vulnerable, unprotected. Even though I know it’s still there, I feel for my Glock behind my back and slowly pull it from its holster. Chambering a round, I angle it down in front of me and start moving through the first floor, starting with the kitchen.

The plastic bag full of baby clothes still sits on the island, mocking me. It would’ve been a nice touch, if I didn’t immediately recognize the scent of the fabric deodorizer used by the second-hand children’s clothing store in town and the one tag from said store that she forgot to remove from a yellow onesie with ducks all over it.

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